There was an old record player stashed behind Sherlock’s chair at the base of the bookcase. He couldn’t remember where it came from; a remnant from a case or perhaps a permanently borrowed item from the family house. All he knew was that it was there, and at some point he had decided that it needed records for it to play. A music shop in Soho offered him free repairs for his violin when and if he should need them, and on one visit he noticed it housed an impressive collection of records, old and new. Upon expressing an interest in starting a collection but unsure of where to begin, the owner insisted on a few of her favourites (‘Free as well of course for you, Mr Holmes’). He had taken them home and been pleased with her selection, as had John, and so he returned time and again irrespective of the needs of his violin to acquire more for his eclectic accumulation.
He found he had become rather attached to the old thing. As much as he enjoyed the ease and refinement of modern technology, he had always been able to appreciate the charms and elegance of the retro and the aged.
He possessed another item which held such a spell over him. A scuffed silver box of an ornate design, lined with velvet rarely seen these days. A little box, no larger than the length of his hand, that John Watson had never seen, though he had searched for it’s contents on many occasions.
The player had remained silent since his return and he hadn’t seen his little box in far longer. That night, however, he would make use of them both. He pulled a record from the alphabetised line on the bottom self of the bookcase, let the sweet tones of the singers voice fill his ears, before sitting himself in his chair and opening the box.
It seemed fitting, surrounding himself with the old and familiar things in his life. Things that had been with him for years, things that he clung to for comfort.
After the slight prickling sensation in the crook of his elbow faded, he raised his eyes to the vacant seat across from him, and pushed down the plunger of the syringe.
There was guilt, and shame, and loneliness.
And then the world slipped away, wrapping him in a darkness, as it all slowed down.
——————
I’m having a lot of post-Sign of Three feelings. Rumer wasn’t helping.
I said I wasn’t going to write any s3 Sherlock until the season was over, but well, I had to write a post-wedding mystrade smut ficlet:
After the Wedding – After John’s wedding, Greg got dropped off at Mycroft’s.
teaser below the cut
Greg knew better than to drive home. Sally had offered to take him home when she’d picked up the photographer, but he’d refused, wanting to at least stay for some of the reception. In the end though, he only stayed for about half, pulling out his phone to call a cab when he saw a dark car pull up in front of him. Shaking his head he ducked down, saw Anthea and got inside.
“You know, John wouldn’t have minded if you’d shown up,” he said as he came into the house and took off his coat.
Mycroft was in pyjamas, housecoat and slippers. Greg looked him up and down, then leaned in and kissed him sloppily until Mycroft detangled himself and stepped back. “You’re drunk,” he sniffed.
“Leave it to John Watson to have an open bar. Come on,” he reached back and pinched Mycroft’s arse.
“Gregory!” Mycroft put a hand on his chest.
Greg leaned back and smiled. “What? You had your car drop me off here just so you can take incriminating photographs?”
A very short Torchlock ficlet for superwholock fanwork friday:
“Why are doing this again?” John stared out the window
“Because you encouraged me to make ‘help Mycroft more’ a New Year’s resolution.”
“Why Cardiff?”
“Torchwood Three.”
“What the hell is a Torchwood?” John looked at him.
Instead of answering Sherlock lapsed into silence.
A short time later they were in front of a plain building. “Sherlock this is a tourist office,” John grumbled as he followed the detective inside. The good looking young man behind the desk looked too proper in a suit.
“Sherlock Holmes. I believe Jack Harkness is expecting me?”
Before the man could respond another good looking man stepped in from the back. Was devastating good looks a job requirement?
“Mycroft mentioned you coming, but not those pretty eyes,” Jack smiled and offered his hand. “Captain Jack Harkness.”
Next to them the other man pulled out a stopwatch and pressed the button. “Seventeen minutes. Your resolution to stop flirting so much, sir?”
“Oh come on Ianto, that’s hardly fair.”
He rolled his eyes. “I’ll get coffee.”
“Tea, if you have it,” said John. “Thank you.”
Ianto vanished into the back. Jack turned his smile to John. The doctor suddenly felt like he was at the center of the universe as he shook his hand. “You must be John Watson.”
Sherlock took his arm and pulled him back before John could respond. “I understand we’re picking up a package?”
“Yes, just some things that need to be hand carried to London.”
Ianto reappeared with mugs. John was surprised by the perfection of his tea.
“Spending the night in Cardiff?” asked Jack.
“No,” answered Sherlock shortly, looking between Jack and John.
“Pity. Dinner?”
John smiled. Sherlock shook his head. “No, sorry, we really must be heading back.”
Ianto took out a package from behind the desk and a pen. “Just sign for it, please.”
Sherlock did so while hardly taking his eyes off anyone else. “Come along, John.” He tucked the package into his coat and steered John out of the building.
Secret Santa ficlet for purpurnena!
The request was Sherlock and Molly fluff. Ficlet below the cut!
Molly let Sherlock into her flat. The cat wound around his legs as she helped him to a seat on the couch. “I’ll get you some tea,” she said, stepping into her kitchen. The man was silent, eyes quickly slipping closed. His injuries had been tended quickly and quietly and he’d said he had arrangements to leave London within the next two hours.
“Sherlock you have to keep your eyes open. Might be a concussion.” She set the tea down in front of him.
He frowned at her and leaned forward to sip the tea, moving carefully.
Molly didn’t expect thanks or gratitude. She’d worked with him for years, after all. And now she’d helped take apart his world. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to face John any time soon. Turning away she started to leave him be when he reached over and took her hand.
Biting back a gasp, Molly turned and looked down at him. He looked….vulnerable. She sat down next to him and just held his hand while he sipped his tea.
Finally he set it down and looked at her. “Thank you,” he said quietly
Molly smiled sadly at him. “Won’t be the same here without you.”
Sherlock’s eyes hardened and he looked away, retrieving his hand. “I have to do this.”
“I know.”
The door rang and Sherlock tensed. Molly got up and opened the door a crack. “There’s a cab downstairs.” The woman was gone before she could respond.
With a sigh, Sherlock got unsteadily to his feet. Molly put an arm around him, halfway giving him a gentle hug. “You take care of yourself.”
Sherlock met her eyes. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”
Molly smiled. “Go on, cabs waiting.”
She watched him go, smile fading as he went out the door. Wherever he went next all she could do was hope and pray that he’d be able to come home safe.